India Black and the Widow of Windsor (10 page)

Our carriage started forward and I lost sight of the show. We circled the castle and arrived at the servants’ entrance. I was delighted to see a welcoming glow in the windows and an open door, spilling warmth and light into the growing darkness. I needed a cup of tea, or something stronger, if it were on offer.

The countess’s maid and I alighted from the carriage. The footman collected our luggage and motioned for us to follow him into the house. He dumped our bags unceremoniously in a heap on the flagstone floor.

“Wait here for Miss Boss, the housekeeper,” he flung over his shoulder as he disappeared into the bowels of the castle.

We didn’t wait long, for the housekeeper arrived within minutes, bearing a notebook and pencil, pink with exertion and looking very cross. Now most people you meet are inconsequential little swine that have as much presence as a wet flannel. Miss Boss was a formidable biddy, with a tiny squashed face and the beady eyes of a watchful bird of prey. She gave me a look that said, “I’ve seen your type before, girl. Stay out of the pantry, don’t make any unnecessary noise, and if I catch you flirting with the male servants, I’ll skin you alive.” I found myself nodding, though she hadn’t said a word.

She consulted her list. “India Black, lady’s maid to the Dowager Marchioness of Tullibardine. You’ll be sharing with Flora Mackenzie. She’s the cook’s daughter and a housemaid. She’ll be able to help you find anything you will need for the marchioness.” She checked her list. “Effie Clark, Lady Dalfad’s maid. You’ll be in your usual room, with Lady Thorne’s maid. You know the way. I’ll have your baggage sent up. India, follow me.”

We hustled through the kitchen (a cavernous space capable of feeding a smallish army) and into a hallway, where a boatload of servants was milling about, jostling against each other as they scurried to and fro, bearing linens and teapots, scuttles of coal and platters of sandwiches.

Miss Boss bore down on a lone footman. “Robbie, Robbie Munro. This is Miss Black, lady’s maid to the Dowager Marchioness of Tullibardine. Miss Black will be sharing with Flora. Fetch her luggage and show her the way, please.”

“Yes, Miss Boss.” Robbie gave me a diffident smile. Well. Things were looking up. Munro was a comely lad with golden red curls, a dimpled chin and the manly physique of a member of the Household Cavalry. He wore a black waistcoat and jacket, and a kilt in the Royal Stewart tartan. He collected my bags, hefting them casually and tucking them under his arms.

“This way, miss.”

It was a mighty long hike to the room I’d be sharing with the housemaid. I’ve heard there are a hundred thirty rooms in Balmoral, and I do believe we traversed each one of them. We marched along what seemed like miles of corridors, with Munro setting a ground-eating pace the likes of which hadn’t been seen since the march to relieve the siege of Luck now. I scampered after him, trying to match his stride and straining for a glimpse into some of the rooms as we passed them. Not being the recipient of many royal invitations, I was curious as to how the other 1 percent live. We exited the servants’ staircase and entered the main corridor. I can’t say I cared much for the furnishings here, which consisted of large numbers of stags’ heads mounted on walls painted to look like marble, assorted pictures and busts of the dead Prince Albert (draped in black crepe, in case anyone in the English-speaking world was unaware he’d joined the great heavenly choir some years ago), heraldic shields and an astonishing array of Scottish weapons: axe heads of granite, serpentine and greenstone; dirks; basinet helmets; spears; pikes; great two-handed swords that looked as though they should be wielded by giants; broadswords; flintlocks; targes; and dozens of
sgian dubhs
, those nasty little pigstickers the Scots love to carry in their stockings and whip out after a dram or two. An aficionado of edged weapons would have thought he’d died and gone to heaven. If Vincent got word of the abundance of arms within reach, there’d be no telling how many daggers and such he’d cart away in his luggage. I hoped the Queen had insurance.

We passed a few open doors that led into some of the sitting rooms and parlors and such, and I have to admit at being rather shocked. Not from the elegance or the grandiosity, but from the sheer bloody awfulness of the rooms. The Queen and Prince Albert had clearly been besotted with Scotland; the carpets on the floor were the Royal Stewart tartan or the green Hunting Stewart tartan (pretty, I suppose, in a throw rug, but covering what seemed like acres of floor, it was a bit much), the curtains were tartan, the chairs and sofa were upholstered in the same tartan designs, and the wallpaper was covered with thistles. I felt woozy.

Munro grinned at me. “It’s something, isn’t it? I couldn’t believe it myself. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Have you been here long?”

“A few days. I’m just learning my way around the place.”

As if to prove his point, we turned a corner into a dead end.

“Must have taken a wrong turn back there. Ah, here we are. This way.” We set out again, Munro carrying my bags effortlessly.

“What is your job here?” I asked.

“I serve at meals, open and close doors for guests, and if any of the gentlemen guests require a valet, I perform that function as well.” He leaned closer to me, and I could smell the pomade on his hair. “I don’t mind telling you, I’m a bit nervous.”

“So am I. I was just hired by the marchioness today. I’ve never met her before, and the first thing I have to do is attend to her at the Queen’s castle.” Might as well play up my inexperience (fact) and my anxiety (also fact); the handsome Munro might take pity on me and show me the ropes. He might also provide some intelligence about the other servants.

“Not to worry. You’ll do fine.” He opened a thick oak door. “Here we are. This is the marchioness’s room. Her baggage has been brought up already, as you can see. I’ll take your luggage on to your room. Once you’ve put away the marchioness’s things, come back to the kitchen and have your tea.”

The marchioness’s room resembled all the others at Balmoral: a plethora of tartan and thistles, with watercolours of the surrounding Cairngorms and Highland lochs on the walls. A wood fire had been lit in the fireplace, and I stood before it warming my hands for a bit while my head stopped spinning. Lord, a few nights in this place and I’d never be able to read a Walter Scott novel again. Unpacking the old girl’s things was the work of a moment: clothes in the wardrobe; combs and brushes and powder on the dressing table in front of the window; Charlie Dickens, the Bible and her snuffbox on the table beside her bed. I checked to see she had a good supply of wood and candles, then hoofed it back to the kitchen. I was famished.

I should have left a trail of bread crumbs to follow, for it took me a good long while to find my way there. You’d think you could follow the smells, for it was teatime with dinner not far off, but in a castle the size of Balmoral the smell of food cooking didn’t penetrate the granite walls and long corridors. I’d been busy gaping at the hideous décor and not paying any attention to the route Munro had followed, so I had to bumble around the halls, peering into doorways and over balustrades, trying to figure out where I was going. If not for the directions proffered by a succession of po-faced servants, I might still be wandering the halls of the Queen’s Highland retreat. I finally staggered back into the kitchen, having taken the two-shilling tour of the castle.

Miss Boss pounced on me like a hawk on a field mouse. “You’ve arranged Her Ladyship’s belongings?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then let me introduce you to some of the servants you will need to know.”

We made a hasty circuit of the room, with Miss Boss introducing me to a dozen bewhiskered gentlemen in kilts (Royal Stewart, naturally) who acted as under butlers, footmen, equerries and such. I thought the odds were good that I’d remember their names, as they were all Archie or Jock. Surnames seemed in short supply in Scotland as well, as they shared just a few: Grant, MacBeath and Macdonald. As we were introduced, each muttered some greeting in an incomprehensible Scottish accent. I might as well be in Hungary, I thought. Thank goodness for Munro and Miss Boss. I could at least understand them when they spoke.

I met Edith Mackenzie, the cook, a tubby, moon-faced woman with freckles and untidy red hair under her white cap.

She smiled pleasantly. “Call me ‘Cook.’ You’ve far too many names to remember as it is. There will be bacon and eggs and spotted dick for your tea, when Miss Boss is finished with you.”

That couldn’t come soon enough, in my opinion, but Miss Boss had more introductions to make. She pointed across the room to a tall, balding chap with a guardsman’s mustache.

“That’s James Vicker, the deputy to the master of the household. Usually, the master of the household accompanies the Queen from Windsor to Balmoral, but he’s ill, and Mr. Vicker will be serving as the master in his place. Mr. Vicker is responsible for sleeping and dining arrangements, and entertainments. You must do whatever he tells you to do.”

I wasn’t sure the chap would be up to the task. Vicker was white with stress, the remaining tufts of his hair standing in soft peaks around his forehead, which was creased with worry. Bad enough to take on the diva’s role after years of being an understudy, but to be uprooted from the familiar confines of Windsor on the Queen’s whim was no doubt a considerable strain.

“And
that
,” Miss Boss hissed, “is Mr. Brown.” The feisty housekeeper looked apprehensive. “You must also follow Mr. Brown’s instructions. He’s a sharp tongue on him, but pay no mind to it. Just do as he says.”

I’d been dying to see John Brown, farmer’s son and former ghillie, now the Queen’s close confidant, who called her “wumman” and slept down the hall from her. He was a rustic-looking gent, with a dense brown beard and craggily handsome face. Good-looking, if you like a bit of rough, which apparently Her Royal Majesty did. He’d started service at Balmoral as Prince Albert’s ghillie, guiding him on hunts for stag and accompanying him to the lochs for salmon fishing. After the prince’s death, Brown had managed to worm his way into the Queen’s good graces (no one was quite sure how, as he was reputed to be a drunken lout with the manners of a moor pony), and now he lorded it over Her Majesty’s household.

A group of dusky gentlemen trouped past, decked out in sapphire tunics and blousy pants, with white muslin turbans adorned with peacock feathers, and carrying pots, pans and a number of jute bags. One had a chicken tucked under his arm. The scent of cardamom and turmeric wafted after them.

Miss Boss frowned. “Her Majesty’s Indian servants. We don’t cook for them; they prepare their own meals in the courtyard. They don’t do much when they’re here, just loiter about all day and shiver. They only work at mealtimes. One of them stands behind the Queen, ready to assist her.”

I’d have given a sovereign to see the marchioness’s face when one of those little brown buggers appeared in the dining room.

I surveyed the kitchen and felt my spirits sink. It looked like an international convention of domestics. I could imagine the topics they’d discuss: “How to Deflect Sexual Advances from Your Employer,” “What to Do When Your Employer Expires on the Chamber Pot,” “Ten Tips for Removing Stains from Egg Cozies,” and so on. The English servants were impassive, the Scots dour (you expected something else?) and the Indians odiferous. Finding an assassin in this motley crew would be like unearthing a killer at Sanger’s Circus. Where to begin? I didn’t think it likely that one of those Indian chappies would be dedicated to the cause of Scottish nationalism, but who knows? He might have befriended a Glaswegian merchant in Bombay and over chai and chapattis discussed their similar desires for an independent nation. And how was I to even communicate with these Hindoo brethren? I could barely understand the Scottish accents I heard around me. Well, a hot meal, a stiff peg of brandy and a good night’s sleep, and I’d be ready to tackle the anthropological society meeting in the morning.

“Here’s Flora,” said Miss Boss. “Flora Mackenzie, Cook’s daughter. You’ll be sleeping in the spare bed in her room.”

Flora was a looker. A strawberry blond curl had escaped from the mass tucked into her cap, and her brown eyes sparkled wickedly. She had a rosebud mouth and a dusting of freckles across a pert nose. Rowena would have taken one look and begun purring. Flora would do well in the Big Smoke, with that mocking smile and devilish gaze. The toffs would eat her up; all I’d need to do was shorten her skirt and lower the bustline of her white blouse, and the money would be rolling in. I debated the ethics of doing a bit of recruiting for Lotus House while performing my patriotic duty of guarding the Queen and decided I shouldn’t jeopardize my disguise.

“Och, you’re a beauty,” said Flora. “The fellows will be all over you. I’ll have to put a lock on the door.” She giggled good-naturedly, and I was relieved to see that she wasn’t going to be the jealous type. Every man within a fifty-mile radius was probably wound tightly around her little finger, and yours truly posed no threat at all. She took my arm and steered me toward a table laden with steaming platters of food and urns of smoking tea. Warm as sunshine, she was.

“Tuck in, dearie. If you came on the train, I’m sure no one thought to feed you all day. Take as much as you want, but don’t tarry. You’ll have to be upstairs in a thrice to dress the marchioness for dinner.”

I hadn’t thought of that; I’d been looking forward to putting up my feet and having an early night. Damn. I consoled myself with the thought that French was no doubt doing yeoman’s work as well: having a brandy and soda or four, sitting down to a lavish dinner followed by a vintage port, a Cuban cigar and a strenuous game of billiards. My attempt at consolation failed. Morosely, I ate a hearty supper and drank several cups of strong, sweet tea, fortifying myself for the ordeal to come, while Flora pelted me with questions and sparred flirtatiously with the footmen. After the meal I followed Flora up the stairs to the servants’ quarters on the top floor, down a draughty hall and into a spartan room containing two single beds, a plain chest of drawers, a bedside table with a candle and a box of matches, and a second table in the corner, where a pottery jug and bowl indicated that I’d be enjoying invigorating sponge baths during my stay. It was as cold as the North Pole in there; even an Inuit would have found it chilly.